


Things With Feathers

by BabalooBlue



Series: Take II [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3187535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabalooBlue/pseuds/BabalooBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows on from 'The Gift - Take II' and 'Long Way Home'.</p><p>"I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope, For hope would be hope for the wrong thing." – T. S. Eliot (East Coker, The Four Quartets)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

This is the third time this month they're short-staffed out front. And who has to help out? Me. Typical. I hate serving. I don't mind the kitchen work; people need to eat. What I mind is helping out front to cover for someone too lazy to come in.

I hate the strict regulations – one meat, two veg, one carb. What if someone doesn't want carbs? Do they get an extra scoop of veg? _No_. Meat maybe? _NO_. O-kay. The how matters, how much of this, how many of that. What doesn't matter is the result; do people actually like what they're getting? Are they even getting what they want?

Do we serve people at tables? _No_. But this is a hospital, maybe people can't walk right. _We still don't serve at tables_. But… _No but. If they can't walk, they shouldn't be down here; they should be upstairs on a ward. No service at the table._

But what about the woman I'm about to serve? She's got her hands full with her baby and her bag. She needs a third hand to carry her tray. Or look, the next man in line, the one who's so obviously annoyed by the baby's grousing. Yeah, Mister, that's what babies do, they cry and they eat and they poop and if you're lucky they sleep when they're supposed to. Bet you don't have one of them at home. But he's leaning to one side, and he's using a cane. I've seen him before. He comes here a lot. How on earth is he going to juggle the tray with a plate and a glass and who knows what on it? I should go and take his tray to a table. The next free table is way at the back. That's a long way with a cane and a tray. Especially if you're as tired as he looks. Maybe one of the other people in line will help him out. But I know they're not going to because they're all just minding their own business. And I can't leave my station. My oh-so-precious daily special station. I'll lose my job if I do.

"Next please!"

"What's the special today?"

It's on the board. Maybe he's too tired to read it, though. "Meatloaf, mixed vegetables and mash or fries."

"Skip the veg and give me some extra fries."

Ah. Can't do that. Might lose my job over it.

"You'll have to pay for an extra portion of fries, Sir."

The look on his face! And those eyes. Like lasers. He thinks I'm just here to piss him off. I don't think he's a very nice person, even when he's not tired and hurting. Wouldn't want to get into an argument with him.

"Are you kidding me?"

 _Are. You. Kidding. Me_. You can hear the tension and the anger underneath. The top layer is as thin as an eggshell. He's leaning forward now, as if he wants to reach over the splashguard on the counter. I shake my head slowly to indicate that no, unfortunately I'm not kidding. It's possibly the most stupid rule they've come up with here. It's not my rule. My rule is, you eat what you like and you get what you pay for. You pay for meatloaf and two sides.

I'm sure those lasers can read what I'm thinking.

He could do with a bit of fattening up.

I quickly check to make sure the supervisor isn't around. Probably on another coffee break. That's her third today. Stupid cow. Different rules for different folks 'round here. Then I straighten my back and face those lasers squarely. I don't even need to look at the food containers – meat to the left, veg in the middle, fries and mash to the right. Two slices, skip the middle and then dig deep into the fries. I don't let those lasers out of my sight. And suddenly, my fingers on the handle are almost touching the fries, I've pushed the scoop in that far, I think I see a spark in that blue. No more lasers. It's little sparklers now, just like Josie had on her birthday cake last month. Only these sparklers are blue. Bright blue. He's laughing. He's laughing, but his lips don't even twitch.

I push the plate onto his tray.

"Enjoy your meal, sir."


	2. Chapter 2

**1**

While he gets his lunch, Wilson is safely upstairs, hooked up to what he calls the poison dispenser. This is round four. Or maybe it's five? In another life he used to complain about patients and their families who couldn't remember the details of past treatments. He now knows how that happens. One day bleeds into the next, one week into another, and before you know it, it's December and you have no idea where summer went. Or the last year.

He juggles his tray to an empty booth and slides in awkwardly. He used to be able to do that with more grace. He doesn't care. There is nobody watching anyway.

Except for the girl behind the counter maybe.

Even though she surely can't see him over here, he grins and shoves a fork full of fries into his mouth.

Life isn't exactly a barrel full of laughs right now, so someone sticking it to the man brightens his day just a little, especially if he benefits from it.

Life as a dead man with a friend who's half dead himself is strange. It's a half-life. House doesn't mind not having a name. He minds having no work, though. With nothing to occupy his mind, he has taken to checking Wilson's test results, prescriptions and scans, anything he can get his hands on. He is more thorough than his doctor. To be fair, Webber is good. Wilson picked Webber himself, so Seattle it was since that's where Webber was. House doesn't care, it's a city to live in. He has seen precious little of it so far. There's a jazz club not too far from their tiny apartment, that's a big plus. He hasn't been able to spend much time there but that's going to change soon. Hopefully.

There it is, the devil he renounced many years ago. It's stronger than ever, and is trying to take control. Four courses done, surgery a success, and here they are on course number five. It's looking good. He knows better than to trust that voice, but it's so seductive. He can't help himself, he needs this little glimmer, that tiny fragile beat he can feel every now and then when Webber is satisfied with another result and Wilson nods his agreement for the next round. He wants it so much right now that he tries to ignore the knowledge of what's coming next. And he is successful at least some of the time. But he knows that crushing weight will drop any time now and squeeze him until he can't breathe anymore. It's just around the corner, waiting for that moment when he's not paying attention. It's always there, always waiting.

A bunch of young residents has just taken possession of the booth behind him. He could do without the noise and the chatter and considers going back upstairs. On the other hand, he left Wilson's room because it was too quiet. Silence or mindless chatter, it seems those are his choices for today. He sighs and decides to submit himself to the inane gossip that is bound to start up once they are all seated. Oh hell. He can always read the magazine he has liberated from the nurse's station. He is sure the nurses know that he has been pilfering their magazines on occasion. It is a mystery but they seem to have taken a liking to him. Not that he has done anything to deserve it. He has been complaining about the food, about the lack of a warm throw for his recliner, about the timing of housekeeping and anything else he could come up with. A man has to keep busy. But for some reason the oncology nurses have taken a shine to both him and Wilson. It is disgustingly saccharine, and he tries to give them every reason to change their behavior every chance he gets.

For the next ten minutes, he hides behind his music magazine – which was surely put on the counter just for him to steal - but can't completely block out the conversation that's going on behind him.

"… but it's obvious that it's a UTI, I don't even know why I should bother checking anything else."

"…. and then Sean never showed up but he was the one who wanted me to go in the first place."

"… while that idiot Anderson never thought to get an LP. Can you believe it?"

They had him at UTI. He leans back further to make sure he doesn't miss any part of that conversation, while blocking out the gossip about Sean and Anderson, whoever they may be.

"Hang on, hang on, Chris. Why do you think it's a UTI? Did you get a sample?"

"Of course I got a sample, I'm not stupid. Gotta have the paperwork to back it up, just in case. But I'm not going to wait for the results; I want to tick this off my list. I need to get Stevens off my back…"

"You won't wait for the labs? What if it isn't a UTI?"

"She came in because she's got blood in her urine!"

"Yes, but she never mentioned burning."

"Come on, didn't you see her in the waiting room? She's a college student, even those glasses can't disguise how hot she is, and I bet she's having sex with at least three different guys a week. A girl this hot, there's no way this is not a UTI. Stevens wants us to clear as many cases as possible. It's the end of the month, he's after a clean sheet."

Okay. This is one patient he wouldn't mind taking a look at.

"She told you that she's having sex with so many different partners?"

"No, she didn't. Actually, she didn't answer half the questions I asked. But when it's that obvious, I don't need proof."

"But you can't put her on a random antibiotic just to get rid of her." Mr. Conscientious again.

"You know what Stevens is like. I have no choice. I have another six on my list for this afternoon. He won't even look at the details in my files, he just signs off whatever I put in front of him."

If his assessment is right, it's now time for Mr. Conscientious to make his move.

"If you want I'll take this one over from you when we get back." Bingo.

House has heard enough. When he passes by the residents' table he slows down, leans in and says to Mr. Conscientious, "Get a urine culture done and schedule her for an eye test while you're at it."

He doesn't look back as he makes his exit. He doesn't need to. He knows the look on the boy's face.

His day just got a little better.


	3. Chapter 3

**2**

"The nurses are talking."

"So? That's what nurses do."

Wilson sighs and puts down the book he has been trying to read. He just can't concentrate today. Among other things, the chemo messes with his memory and his ability to concentrate on even the simplest tasks at times.  _Let's just hope it also messes brutally with whatever is left of that tumor_. The hospital gossip he overheard this morning is a welcome distraction.

"You're taking stuff from their station."

"Stuff? What stuff?"

House is just deliberately annoying today. But without him he would have nobody to talk to, so he has to take what he can get.

"Doesn't matter what stuff, House. There is a gift store downstairs if you need magazines or books or whatever you're taking from them. Or use my laptop."

"But that's no fun! Besides, they're putting it there for me to take. Did you know they left a men's magazine out the other day? I know there have been rumors, but the cover article was 'Out and Proud – How To Help Your Partner Out Of The Closet.' Think they're trying to tell us something, Jimmy?"

Wilson doesn't really care what the nurses think as long as House doesn't piss them off too much. House has alienated enough nurses during his career to last for three lifetimes, but in the last year or so he has been surprisingly tame. It hadn't occurred to Wilson before but it's almost as if House is making an effort. Will wonders never cease?

House gets up, stretches and throws the medical journal he has been reading onto Wilson's bed.

"Here, maybe that'll keep your attention. An interesting study on polycythaemia vera in there that'll probably rock your boat. I'm off to lunch."

And with that he disappears.

Mini spring rolls are today's special but unfortunately, there is no friendly server to give him double portions or swap the rice for more rolls.

He is just about to bite into a spring roll, when Mr. Conscientious appears at his table and talks into his food.

"I've been looking for you since yesterday. I thought you were a doctor but nobody here seems to know you." He takes a deep breath. "I've requested a consult from an ophthalmologist. Why did you want me to do that?"

House is impressed. The guy looks as if he has just finished high school but that's his own age talking, not the boy's. The test results aren't back yet or he would have mentioned it. House stuffs the spring roll in his mouth and chews. "Sit," he says.

The guy takes the opposite seat. House checks him out. Buzz cut, no sign of a stubble, blue checked shirt, chinos and an impeccably clean and carefully ironed white coat.

"You always this organized and pretty? Got nothing better to do than your laundry?"

The boy's eyebrows go up. Impressive. Almost as fancy as Wilson's when he still had proper eyebrows.

"What do my clothes have to do with my case?"

"Everything. If you look after your clothes that well, and they still look that uninspired, then you either have too much time on your hands because you're not working hard enough, or you're putting so much emphasis on these clothes because you only have a couple of sets you can wear for work. If it's the first, I'm officially no longer interested in your so-called case. If it's the latter, I want to know why you're here in your very limited free time instead of working a second job somewhere."

The boy just sits there for a moment.

"How do you know this is my free time?"

Not just conscientious, apparently also slow.

"Residents here work 24 hours on, 12 off. You shouldn't be here right now. And yet, you're working on a case."

"Who are you?"

Now they are getting to the interesting stuff. "Who's asking? And why do you care?"

This has the boy's interest even more piqued. "I'm asking. And I care who you are because I'm generally careful about following medical advice from some random stranger in the cafeteria. For all I know you are the janitor on his lunch break."

"Nice going, fancy pants. Maybe I am the janitor. What difference does it make as long as I'm right?"

"Oh, but we don't know if you're right, Mr. Janitor. The tests aren't back yet. But you obviously don't think it's a UTI either. So, either spill or I walk."

"And then what? Then you'll never know why the patient didn't answer half the questions your so-called friend asked her yesterday."

The boy's jaw drops. "Hang on, what do you know?" He pauses when House grins. It takes him a second to catch on. "How do you know she had trouble hearing him? I never mentioned that."

House leans back and pushes his plate away.

"Get me a chocolate muffin, and maybe I'll tell you."

The boy eyes him for a moment, and then gets up without a word.

He comes back with two muffins for House and a cup of coffee for each of them.

"What's with the double dose of sugar and carbs? And coffee? Why so generous, thought you were living barely above the poverty line. I won't eat this if it means you'll go hungry for the next two days."

"Don't act like you care about me. You're after this case or you wouldn't even be talking to me. To put your mind at rest: I'm not starving. You on the other hand don't look too hot. So, eat and then tell me who you are and why you're helping me."

The boy has guts.

House is halfway through the second muffin when he decides to put the boy out of his misery.

"Before I tell you who I am, you need to tell me why you're here. Why you care about this case."

"I should've known I wouldn't get a straight answer out of you. I'm here because I can't let that girl die. I think the hematuria is not what everyone thinks it is. It's too easy. She never mentioned any of the other signs of a UTI. It's not the real problem. She needs to be treated correctly. And apparently I'm the only one who cares. Well, apart from you maybe. And I'm not sure that you really do." The boy drinks his coffee and eyes House over the rim of the cup. "Your turn."

House can't tell this guy who he really is or he'll run the risk of news getting back to where it shouldn't.

"Relax, she's not going to die. At least not yet. As for who I am, let's just say, I've worked in the medical field for the last thirty years and have extensive diagnostic experience. I'm not here in a professional capacity. There's no competition. I'm just killing time. We solve this, the glory is all yours." He knows the boy is wondering now if he can believe him or not. "But I need to know whether you're worth getting involved with here or not. Why are you really interested in figuring out this case? And don't tell me it's because it's the ethical thing to do. I've just finished my lunch, don't wanna lose it again."

The boy seems on the verge of blurting out something, but then thinks better of it. He toys with his empty cup instead.

"So you really don't want to tell me your name? I have no way of checking your credentials then. You could still be a janitor. Or a hairdresser. Although you don't exactly look like one." The boy is playing for time. Not a bad strategy. Most people sooner or later tip their hand, so you know if you can trust them or not. What the boy doesn't know is that he's sitting across from a master player. He continues, "I don't really have much to lose here, right?"

House grins. "You don't. Well done. You trust me and I'm a fake, you'll probably catch it. If you don't catch it, the patient will be sent home with some antibiotics. She might get better. But she probably won't. If she's lucky, some doctor down the line will pick up on what's really wrong with her. You trust me and I am what I say I am, you win. So, what's it to be?"

The boy takes a deep breath.

"I don't trust my attending. He's a career-obsessed ass. He's just after the big money, and he's forcing us to cut corners. I never wanted to go into internal medicine. Didn't have much choice though, in the end." A quick glance downward. So the boy does have a tell. Amateur. There's more to that statement but he won't let House know just what it is. Well, there's time yet. "I think Chris is messing this up because he's under pressure, and I know I can prove it. I just don't have the time or resources to do it on my own. If you are what you say you are, then you're my chance to figure this out. And possibly my ticket out of internal medicine."

Interesting. Not quite what he had expected.

"And what's written on that ticket? Final destination?"

"Infectious diseases maybe."

Cool.

"Or oncology."

Oh, for crying out loud.

House thinks for a moment. He knows Wilson's schedule inside out. Siesta after lunch. He'll sleep for at least another hour. Then a meeting with Webber. Yeah, that'll work.

"Okay, here's how we're going to play this. You get me a copy of the patient's file. Complete history, everything. And I mean everything. I want a copy I can keep, you understand? So don't just nick the real one. You have one hour."

The boy looks as if he's about to object, but then thinks better of it. Finally, he nods, gets up and leaves without a further word.

House watches the boy's nicely starched back disappear through the sliding doors.

It takes him a moment to realize that he never found out his name, but by then the boy is gone.

"Well played, young Padawan, well played."

He might have room for one more muffin.


	4. Chapter 4

**3**

Wilson wakes to silence. Silence is rare around here. House must still be downstairs, probably harassing the cafeteria staff because he doesn't like the coffee. He keeps his eyes closed for a while and runs through a quick assessment of his body. He is achy, but the nausea he felt immediately after lunch has subsided. He stretches his legs and delights in the fact that nothing cramps. His hands and feet are still a mess of tingling numbness, but as long as he stays still in bed he can pretend to ignore that fact. Finally, his chest. He can feel the scar through his shirt. It's healing well but Wilson suspects that ache will always remain, just as he will always wonder if Webber has not overlooked a minuscule piece of tumor which will one day awaken from its chemo stupor and decide to grow again. He knows full well this is utter lunacy, but he can't help himself.

And then he hears paper rustling. So House is not downstairs.

Reluctantly he opens his eyes to see House sitting in his recliner, reading glasses atop his nose and his brow furrowed. He could do with a haircut. Half his face is hidden behind what looks suspiciously like a medical file, but Wilson knows there is more than a week's scruff on House's face. While he has lost his hair, House is going native.

Wilson sighs. "You sticking your nose in my treatment again?" House's way of taking control of every detail of his treatment has been annoying as hell. He knows why he does it, and it is most likely to his benefit, but still.

"Nope." House doesn't even look up.

Wilson takes another look. True, this one is only about a quarter of the size of his own file. He waits but House doesn't volunteer anything, he is completely absorbed in whatever he is reading. Wilson isn't sure whether he really wants to know what this is. What he does know, though, is that he is glad to be spared House's incessant fidgeting.

House is bored. But Wilson knows that sending House home, or to what currently serves as their home, is no solution. He has tried. Not only did it not work, he didn't like it either. Even though House is annoying the shit out of him half the time, he is also currently his only distraction. Having a restless and bored – and therefore highly irritating – House with him is better than being alone. When there is no House, he is alone with his thoughts and that's not something he can tolerate for long at the moment.

The surgery to remove the tumor has been successful, but he is not out of the woods yet. Radiation and chemo as a follow up are a must. The success of the surgery should make him feel positive and yet, the fact that he is currently going through yet another round of chemo, that he is still in the hospital, that no oncologist in his right mind would give him the all clear yet, all this means that he can't give himself permission to feel relieved. He wishes he had more of that ignorance that's supposed to be so blissful. He knows too much, is too aware of the odds. So instead of everything looking brighter, it just looks the same old gray as before. He is waiting for that moment when he will be able to drop all the fear and anxiety and leave it all behind. And at the same time he worries that moment may never come.

House has closed the file and moved on to Wilson's laptop now. He is in work mode. The laptop, several medical journals (where they have come from is a mystery) and that strange file are spread out around the recliner. Wilson knows that he will never find out what House is up to, unless House tells him willingly. The laptop's browsing history is always squeaky clean – except for the things House  _wants_  him to find. During his second chemo, when Wilson could barely keep anything down, House had left several links to cooking sites in the history, and deleted everything else – knowing full well that Wilson would check up on him. 'Chemotherapy for Dummies' had been another gift left for him, as well as a music video to 'Stumbling Through The Dark' when his neuropathy began.

It has been three hours since lunch, and normally House would be grousing about getting some snacks by now. Today there isn't a peep out of him. Wilson is the last one to complain about it.

As comfortable as this bed is – not – he needs to leave it on occasion to take care of some necessary tasks. Chemo always makes him a bit wobbly, and the neuropathy in his feet doesn't help.

He makes his way across the room towards the bathroom, holding on to whatever comes in handy. He doesn't need to look up to know that House is keeping an eye on him, he always is.

"Feet still no better?"

Not too distracted by whatever he is reading then.

"What do you think? Does it look like it?" He really doesn't feel like discussing his symptoms with House.

House closes down the page he has been reading. "You'd think the Effexor would have some effect by now."

Webber had put him on an anti-depressant, hoping that it would also tackle some of the chemo side effects. It isn't exactly a long shot but it's not guaranteed to work either. Maybe it's still too soon.

He is so incredibly tired of all this.

"Yeah, you would. I'll mention it to Webber later. Will you be around?"

It's like asking if the sun will rise in the morning. House hasn't missed a single meeting with Webber. And, to be fair, he has made some good suggestions. If only it didn't feel like he was intruding, messing with his treatment.

House nods. "Sure, where else would I be?"

Where else indeed.

* * *

Wilson shuffling off to the bathroom is a sight as common as the rain. And yet, it's something House will never get used to. Wilson has never been the most athletic of men nor the nervous, fidgety type. But over the last year he has gone very quiet, as if he has retreated into himself. House has always known there is a lot more to Wilson than you can see on the outside. He knew from the moment that bottle hit the mirror. Wilson is like an iceberg; most of him is out of sight. But House had always been able to at least guess at what else was there, extrapolate from a look, sometimes just one word. After leaving Princeton, there had been a boyish, exuberant Wilson at times. For a while then he had turned pensive and thoughtful, until that morning in the diner when he requested to make Seattle their destination, because that's where Webber was. Ever since starting on Webber's treatment, Wilson has become smaller, thinner. The hair and weight loss makes him look older. Some of Wilson's boyish softness is gone; he is now all hard edges. House doesn't care that he not only looks harder but has also become more scathing and sarcastic. He can handle that. But Wilson now is at once more condensed and more fragile. Seeing his friend like this gives him an odd ache in his chest, somewhere around the area where Wilson's tumor was and now sits a big, knobby scar.

Maybe this is the real Wilson, the one who was covered in niceness and smiles all those years. Maybe the cancer has eaten away all the disguises and what he's left with now is pure, raw Wilson. If that's the case, House doesn't mind, he can take the cynicism and occasional bitterness. What he finds harder to handle is the fragility that has come to light with it. There are no more smiles to cover that up.

And then Wilson lets his stubbornness show again and wants to walk down to Webber's office instead of using the wheelchair.

"Yeah, because you can just walk off the neuropathy in your feet. Maybe you should give boxing a try, might get rid of the tingling and the pain in your hands."

Wilson doesn't even reply but shuffles out the door instead. House knows better than to offer support. Not that he could actually deliver it. Webber could come to their room, but he probably thinks a change of scenery would help get rid of the grump that's taken possession of Wilson lately.

They slowly make their way down the corridor and, not for the first time, House wonders what they look like to others. Two middle-aged men, one bereft of hair and moving like someone thirty years older, and the other limping along in a totally different rhythm. They're a fine pair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No patient lives were endangered in the writing of this fic. ;)

**4**

 

“What did Webber mean when he asked just now what you were working on?” 

House knew Wilson would pick up on that. 

“I have no idea.” Wilson clearly doesn’t believe him. “Seriously. No idea.” 

Thankfully Wilson is too busy shuffling his way back to his room to keep pressing his point. Webber is an old fishwife. How word has gotten out that he diagnosed someone with an esophageal tumor last month, just before Wilson’s surgery, is beyond him. Or maybe Webber had heard about the woman with pulmonary hypertension. When he met her in the cafeteria a few weeks ago some idiot doctor had just diagnosed her with asthma. Maybe she had gone back to tell him what a tool he was. 

He will have to be more careful. That means going back to trawling the medical chat rooms and online forums. But first he has to make sure that Mr. Conscientious finds his own way to the right diagnosis. 

Having to slow down so Wilson can keep up with him used to be unthinkable but has now become their new reality. That short walk from Webber’s office to his room tires him out more than you would think possible, so they stop off at the nurse’s station. Usually an opportunity to create some mischief, today it is a shocking encounter. 

“They used our absence to turn this place into an eyesore, Wilson!” 

Holiday season has started, and it’s twice as ridiculous this year with Hanukkah so close to Christmas – it brings out the holiday freaks in even greater numbers than normal. Two nurses start chatting to Wilson right away. They have taken to him since the day he came in for his first appointment. Maybe it’s because he knows the intricacies of running an oncology ward and is therefore probably one of the least demanding patients they have ever had. Or maybe they pity him because his only company is a gimpy guy who never says as much as good morning. 

House hangs back and watches Wilson make small talk while resting against the counter of the station, a clever move since he needs to take a breather. It is a little disconcerting to see his friend use some of the tricks he has also used on bad days over the years, and still does. Wilson doesn’t talk about how much the neuropathy bothers him, but for someone who knows what to look for it’s obvious. And House is definitely that someone. Heck, he has written the book on _The Cunning Use of Props And Distractions To Avoid Showing How Bad Things Really Are_. Wilson is no match for him. 

When Wilson seems to have recovered enough to make it back to his room and turns around, he is holding a mini menorah with a ‘Happy Hanukkah’ banner stuck to it. The look on Wilson’s face tells him to back off, but when has House ever heeded that warning? 

“Seriously?” House rolls his eyes at him. 

Wilson shrugs. He sounds defensive. “They’re so happy to bring a little cheer into this place, let them have some fun. As far as I know, the Grinch never touched Hanukkah, so you don’t need to change that.”  

And on that he turns and walks back to his room. 

\-- 

“So, what did the cultures show?” 

“She doesn’t have a urinary tract infection.” 

The boy has run all the usual tests, now he will have to get him to run the non-standard ones.

“Hooray. Big surprise. What else have you got?” House leans back into his seat. Mr. Conscientious has brought coffee and muffins again. He is a fast learner. “Have you figured out yet what’s wrong with her?” 

They have taken over a table in the cafeteria, and to anyone passing it must look like a working lunch. Except that he has never done working lunches. And he’s not going to start now. 

This so-called case is almost a disappointment, it is that easy. He misses the mystery. This falls smack bang into his specialties, so he immediately saw past the distractions put up along the way. 

Of course it isn’t that easy for Mr. Conscientious. 

“There are several possibilities. And considering that you said to get her eyes checked out, I think we’re not looking at kidney stones here.” 

“Well done.” He tries to cut down on the sarcasm but is failing miserably. It isn’t the young guy’s fault, though, that he is already bored with him and this case. “What did the ophthalmologist say? And where is her family history? You do remember me saying I wanted her complete history?” 

The boy looks a bit sheepish. House suppresses a laugh. 

“The appointment isn’t until this evening, it was the only available slot. And I couldn’t get a full family history because I’m working this one in addition to all my other cases. I don’t have the time.” 

“Then make the time. You need to figure out what your priorities are.” He could just tell the boy the diagnosis. But where would be the fun in that? “One hint: Go and get your rare diseases textbook out. Makes for interesting bedside reading, it’s a real page-turner. But don’t try to be clever and start from the back because you want to know how it ends. In this case, big exception, front to back, by the rules, will get you there faster.” 

The boy looks almost dejected. Maybe he has got it wrong and this guy isn’t right for this after all. Only one way to find out. 

“Okay, look. You need to know what you want. Do you want to keep slogging for that idiot of a boss or do you want to learn something and figure out a case that’s not your usual daily fare?” 

The boy looks up and straight into House’s eyes. No flinching. So there is a spark inside this guy after all. 

“No way am I gonna keep doing Stevens’ scut work. I’ll figure this out.” 

House nods. “Good. Now, got any other bright ideas?” 

The boy loses a little of his confidence. “I was thinking maybe leiomyoma…” 

“You were _thinking maybe_? Either you were thinking or not. If you think it’s a possibility, and I assume you’ve done a pelvic exam already, then go and get an ultrasound.” The boy hesitates. “I didn’t mean tomorrow. _Now_.” 

The boy nods and gets up to leave. 

House stops him. “Hey, wait. You haven’t told me your name yet. How else am I going to mock you?” 

“Henderson.” 

“First name?” 

Henderson hesitates. He starts to leave but then changes his mind and calls back over his shoulder, “Aubrey.” 

This is Christmas come early. 

House waits until the boy is almost out the door at the far side of the cafeteria before he shouts after him, “That’s a girl’s name!”


	6. Chapter 6

**5**

House tries to sneak past the nurse's station on his way back but doesn't quite succeed. Eyes at the back of their heads are probably a requirement for nurses in the state of Washington.

"Greg? Wait up!"

_Greg_? Does everyone around here know who he is? He hasn't given anyone his name, but Wilson has been trying not to call him House when others are around. There are thousands of Gregs, some of them even with a limp, but a lot fewer people named House. Webber has figured it out, but he knows better than to blab to his nurses.

He turns and sees Wilson's favorite nurse coming after him. She is a favorite because she has a very easy and charming way of getting all the nasty stuff done but without that fake cheeriness that's so annoying. Even House has to admit that he likes her a little. So far she has not snapped at him for being stubborn and antagonistic, and that's saying something.

She stops a few feet away and holds up a branch of something green. House sighs. He knows what's coming.

"Here, could you take this for James's room? We're decorating patient rooms for the holidays today."

He shakes his head. "With greenery? For immunocompromised people? Great idea!"

"They're fake, what do you think? Some of us have some experience working in oncology, you know."

"As fake as the rest of the holidays then, great. You're painting a super-coordinated picture here. No thanks, um…" he peers at her name tag, "Cristina."

She narrows her eyes at him as if she knows what he is thinking. "So you're a Grinch then. Thought so."

He pushes up his sleeve, takes an exaggerated look at his skin and shakes his head. "Nope, still not green. Although chances are the spring rolls they serve in the cafeteria are going to change that soon. And the coffee here really puts hair on your chest. So, you could be right."

She laughs. He has to concede, she does have a nice laugh. Too nice for someone who works here. She walks over to a bench and sits. Not only too nice, perceptive as well. He doesn't really want to sit with her, but his leg overrules him.

Cristina waits until he has sat down next to her, then she says, "I know James is Jewish, he probably doesn't care about Christmas decorations. But maybe he'll appreciate the effort. This place is bleak by nature. Illness doesn't exactly encourage cheerfulness. We try to make the children's rooms a bit more friendly and colorful but nobody ever thinks the adults might enjoy some color too. Strange, isn't it? As if you suddenly stop enjoying light and colors when you grow up. A little green is still nice, no matter what age you are or what faith you belong to."

He is tempted to make a quip about faith in anything but stops himself. Wilson would kill him for starting an argument in the hallway.

"James doesn't give a shit about any kind of holiday decorations. He doesn't practice. Neither do I. Unless you're talking ritual animal sacrifices at dawn on the third Tuesday of every month. Then I'm your man."

There is it again, that laugh.

"You know, deep down you're probably a nice guy. You just hide it very, very well."

"I didn't think you were naïve. I'm not nice, as you well know."

Cristina turns serious. "And I'm not naïve. Nobody who works here is."

He nods. She's right. Anyone he has ever met in the medical profession who is worth their salt had their innocence sucked right out of them. She doesn't look it but there has to be a steel core under that nice and friendly exterior.

She continues. "I don't know much about the Jewish faith but I know that Hanukkah is the festival of light. Where I come from we have  _paróls._ They're lanterns, often in a star shape. Aside from the usual Christian connotation, they also symbolize the victory of light over darkness and stand for hope."

"You're from the Philippines." It's not a question.

She nods.

He remembers sitting in a classroom, a long time ago, his hands struggling to glue a star together. A star that would go up on the wall with all the others. A star he proudly pointed out to his mother when she came in for the Christmas carol session. He can't remember his father there. He probably couldn't take the time off. It's more likely, though, that he didn't bother. Admiring his son's handiwork and singing would not have been high on his list of priorities.

"How can you work here and still believe in hope?" He has to ask.

"Believing in hope isn't the same as believing in miracles. There are no miracles here." She looks tired all of a sudden. "At least I've ever seen any. But I've also never seen a person without hope walk out of here healthy and not come back. In my experience hope is just one piece of the puzzle. You can't get through a cancer diagnosis and treatment and come out on the other side without it."

"Look, Greg," Cristina continues, "I know it's a rough time for you as well as for James. And I know neither of you puts much stock in symbols. But a little light helps, if only as a distraction from darker things. This time of year can be tough for patients and their family."

"But I'm not – " he interrupts her and then stops. What is he though, if not family? As far as he knows, Wilson hasn't spoken to his family in months. He assumes they know where he is, but he can't be sure. Does Wilson's brother know? The one who isn't Danny? The fact that he doesn't even know the other brother's name speaks volumes. And for once it isn't because House wasn't interested and wasn't paying attention. You would think that in over a decade of friendship he would have caught the name at least once. No, it's because Wilson doesn't talk about them. He has been listening out for clues for years. You would think that House was the one with the screwed up family but if you looked closer, Wilson's was at least as bad.

"I'm not family. I'm just his friend," he finally states.

"Nobody who stays here with someone is  _just_  a friend. It takes a lot to be willing to share this with someone. But don't forget, it also takes a lot to let another person in when you're going through this. You may not be biological family, but in my experience friendship is often stronger than biological ties. Sometimes patients are disappointed when their close relatives can't handle being here. I believe that friends are the family you get to choose. You chose to be here, and James chose to let you be with him. You're family by choice, genetics don't matter here."

It's a bit sentimental, but she has got a point. The way things stand, he is Wilson's family right now. And Wilson is his. Even if your family is a mess, you get to pick a new one when you grow up. Maybe there's some consolation in that. He wonders if he and Wilson have chosen wisely. Maybe they have. They're still around after all.

When Cristina holds out the green plastic branch he takes it reluctantly.

"I'll bring in a  _paról_ for you two tomorrow."


	7. Chapter 7

**6**

 

As expected, Wilson loves Cristina’s _paról_. Even more so when he hears that she has made it herself. Wilson the people pleaser has not completely disappeared. He just comes out less often than he used to. 

The star is a simple affair, about the size of House’s splayed hand, made from bamboo and covered with cellophane paper in different shades of blue. They can’t light it, so Cristina puts it up against the window for Wilson where the sun will light up the colours in the afternoon. 

“I know it’s childish, House,” Wilson says after Cristina has left. 

“Don’t care.” House shrugs and goes back to the website he had been checking earlier. 

Feigning disinterest often works to get Wilson talking, and so it does this morning. 

“As hospitals go, this place isn’t too bad, you know. But it’s still a hospital. It’s boring and it’s sterile. Or at least it should be,“ Wilson chuckles, “and it’s always noisy. A little light and color can only help.” 

He stands by the window, looking at the _paról_. 

“All I’ve seen lately is this room and our apartment. Which isn’t exactly exciting either. It’s not even nice. Do you know that I haven’t been outside in nearly a year, House?” 

“Yes, you have. We’ve been out in the gardens plenty of times.” He knows where this is going, though. 

Wilson leans his head against the window. Speaking against the glass, his voice sounds strange. “No, I mean proper outside, House. Not a few benches and some grass. I mean a walk somewhere. Nature. I mean nature.” 

House keeps scrolling through the search results. 

“Ah yes, I forgot. You’ve always been the outdoorsy type. What, you miss your outings with Tucker?” Tucker. He is another person in Wilson’s life who never makes an appearance. 

Wilson snorts. “No way! I hate hunting. Always have. But the hiking part was okay.” He turns around and sits on his bed but keeps looking at the window. “I loved our road trip, House.” 

House is about to remind him of all the things he complained about while they were on the road but then thinks better of it. Wilson is in a wistful mood, it’s better not to interrupt. 

“I want to go outside. This place,” and he indicates the hospital grounds, “is better than nothing. I need fresh air.” 

House memorizes a few details and, after a few more clicks, closes the laptop. He can finish this later. 

The subtext is clear; Wilson needs company to go outside. No way would he go on his own. He won’t want to take the wheelchair either, he has been strange about that lately. House doesn’t mind pushing it, in fact, it’s quite handy as support. 

“Your carriage awaits, m’lord.” Wilson looks apprehensive. “Oh, come on, you can’t be serious, Wilson. If you walk it’ll take us three hours to get down there and back. You’ll miss lunch!” 

“And that would be such a hardship,” Wilson snaps. 

“You don’t know what’s on the menu today. One day they’ll surprise both of us. Anyway, get in, you can always walk once we’re downstairs.” 

That seems to convince Wilson, and he finally gives in. It looks cold outside, so House grabs a throw for Wilson from the bed, and then they head out. He is secretly glad to hear the sliding door to the room close behind him. He knows exactly what Wilson had meant earlier. They both have a mild case of cabin fever. A change of scenery is urgently needed. The hospital grounds are better than nothing. They will probably freeze their asses off, but at the moment freezing is preferable to sitting in that room another hour and staring at the walls. 

They have just reached the ground-floor when House spots Henderson heading towards the cafeteria. Making sure that Wilson doesn’t see him, he nods at Henderson and holds up his hand, indicating he will be back in five minutes. 

“Right, here we are,” House comes to an abrupt stop outside the hospital doors. It’s cold and dreary today. But Wilson doesn’t seem discouraged. House helps him up and then says, “I need to run back in for a moment. Forgot something.” 

He doesn’t wait for Wilson’s reply and quickly heads back inside to see what Henderson wants. 

“You’re good. I’m starting to like you,” House says as he slides into the booth and grabs the coffee the boy has supplied. Henderson pushes a plate towards him. “What are those?” 

“Some jelly-filled donuts they made fresh today.” 

House grins. It’s Hanukkah. He knows exactly what those are, even if Henderson doesn’t have a clue. He grabs two and wraps them in a napkin. “I’ll keep them for later.” 

“So, Aubrey,” he draws out the name as long as he dares, “what have you come up with? Figured it out yet?” 

The boy eyes him suspiciously, debating whether he should rise to the bait or not. But he is probably used to being teased about his name, so he lets it slide. He pulls out the patient’s file instead, slaps it on the table and looks triumphantly at House. 

“It’s Alport syndrome. Am I right? Explains the hematuria and the hearing loss, even though hers is just beginning to be noticeable. We also found eye lesions. You knew, didn’t you? And you also knew that by telling me not to start at the end of the textbook, I _would_ start at the end, right?” 

House puts up his most innocent look. “Oh no, you didn’t! I’m so sorry. How many hours did it take you?” 

“Too many. I don’t know who you are, but you’re not God. You can’t play with a patient’s life like that. Yes, I know she’s probably not going to die tomorrow, but the sooner this is diagnosed, the better. It’s a mystery how she got to her age without a proper diagnosis.” 

“It’s not unlikely if it’s recessive and her parents are carriers only. And I didn’t tell you because finding out for yourself will make you learn how and where to look. This isn’t a prank, you need to learn which clues to follow up on and which you can cast aside. It’s a process, there’s no textbook for that.” 

The boy shakes his head. “A strange process. You should have told me the minute you knew.”  
  
House disagrees. “I didn’t know. I guessed, yes. Big difference. It could’ve been a number of other diseases. Maybe the hearing problem was coincidental. People with hearing problems do pee blood on occasion. You needed to find out for yourself because you are her doctor. You need to run the tests, you have to start treatment. As you said, you can’t take medical advice from someone who might only be the janitor.”

 And with that he gets up and grabs the donuts.

 “I guess I should say thank you,” Henderson stops him.

 “I guess you should.” House thinks for a second and then sits down again. “Actually, skip the thank you. You can do me a favor instead…”


	8. Chapter 8

**7**

Just as expected, Wilson hasn't made it far into the gardens. House finds him on the bench closest to where he left him a little earlier. He stops a couple of yards away and looks at his friend.

Even with the woolen hat covering up the hair loss you recognize the cancer patient from afar. And although it's winter, and hardly anyone has a tan around here, Wilson's pallor stands out. A long ago school trip to some museum somewhere comes to mind, a mineral exhibition. House remembers the stones, the bright colors. There was only one white and almost transparent one that stands out in his memory. Beryllonite. Pale and all hard edges. This is Wilson now. He also remembers Beryllonite to be a quite rare and brittle mineral.

There is that little ache again, the one that tells him he's a sissy for hoping those edges will smooth out a little in time. For Wilson's sake, if not for his. A sissy for hoping that they will actually have that time. It's that familiar ache that precedes being crushed. The warning signal that tells him to run. But he can't. Not any more. He has made his choice, for better or worse. He will stick around, even if that weight comes crushing down eventually.

House drops the packet into Wilson's lap. "Brought you something."

He watches Wilson's hands struggle with the napkin but doesn't intervene. He wouldn't get any thanks for it. Wilson hates the neuropathy, but he usually throws any offer of help right back in House's face. It's a gamble; sometimes it's better to wait for Wilson to actually ask for help, sometimes assistance is accepted without a comment. Not all that much different from his own behavior, House guesses.

It's just one more of the things they have got used to lately.

" _Sufganiyot_? Where did you get those from?" Wilson sounds excited.

"Oh, is that what they are? I had no idea. I just grabbed a couple of donuts from the cafeteria, that's all."

"Yeah, right." A glance tells him that Wilson doesn't believe a word. Wilson takes a big bite and then says, "My mother used to make them every year. You know, these are quite good actually. Too bad they're going to come back up later, though." He looks at House and grins. "And no, they won't taste just as good coming up." The nausea has become another recurrent theme in Wilson's life and, by extension, in House's.

House waits for more revelations about the Wilson family holiday customs but none is forthcoming. He sighs. Quid pro quo. "My grandmother used to make something similar for New Year's. She called them _Oliebollen_. No jelly, though. No need to go overboard on the treats. Donuts are enough, don't need filling too." And you didn't get to eat five of them either if she had anything to do with it. She was his father's mother after all.

Wilson is still chewing. "Do you miss it? Christmas, I mean?"

"What's there to miss?" House snorts. "A dead tree in the house, or even a fake one to celebrate the birth of some random Jewish child? No thanks."

Wilson should know better than to argue about Christmas and holiday traditions with House, but apparently he can't help himself today. "So what are our holiday plans this year? Have you decorated the apartment already? Webber thinks I'll be out of here by the 20th. I'm expecting at least a tree, you know. We can decorate it together, if you don't want to do it on your own."

"I know chemo is highly toxic and it affects your short-term memory, but I wasn't aware that it also messes with your long-term memory. I have never bought a tree." Actually, he had. Once. Or rather, Stacy had. But that had been in another life. "I'm not buying a tree which I will then have to lug up the stairs because the stupid elevator is broken again and you can't help. You want a tree, you put it up yourself."

Wilson grins. "And I didn't know you'd left your humor behind in Princeton, along with your job and the rest of your life. I don't want a tree, you idiot." He pauses a moment. The grin disappears from his face. "I want to go home, though."

Home. Right. That small apartment neither of them has ever liked much. The one they had rented because it was cheap, close to the hospital and available immediately. The one House hates going back to alone. That one. Maybe it's time to talk.

"Yeah, about that…" He has done his part, Wilson just needs to give the nod. "I think it's time we moved into a more suitable place. One with two bedrooms, for starters. I'm sick of your snoring. Separate bathrooms would be nice too. With a tub, not just a shower. I've been looking at some places. I've got a shortlist of four, wanna take a look?"

"So that's what you've been up to lately. I did notice you went missing, you know."

Actually, no. He hasn't done the apartment search in person, he did all that online. But he doesn't exactly want to tell Wilson about the real reason for his disappearances.

"Yeah, I was hoping you wouldn't notice."

Later upstairs they go through the places House has deemed acceptable. All have two bedrooms with a bathroom each, there is a decent sized living-room and a big kitchen. In fact, the kitchen features quite prominently in all of House's choices. If Wilson notices he doesn't let it show. House assumes Wilson will rediscover his passion for cooking – and eating - once he gets better. Between the nausea from the chemo and the neuropathy, cooking has been the last thing on Wilson's mind over the last year or so. It has been so long that he tasted any of Wilson's cooking that, right now, he would even consider eating one of his vegetable concoctions.

"We should go look at all four apartments." Wilson thinks for a moment. "Moving might not be possible until after the holidays, though. Which is good, I guess. It leaves us more time to decide something bigger."

"And what would that be? What size turkey you want to cook for us for Christmas?"

Wilson laughs and holds up his hands. "Don't think I'll be doing much food prep this year, unless Webber finds a miracle cure soon." The despondency in his eyes stands in stark contrast to his laugh. "I meant something else. Moving means we're staying. Are we?"

Are they indeed. Good question.


	9. Chapter 9

**8**

With one last effort, Wilson pushes open the door and stumbles inside. He ends up against the kitchen counter to catch his breath.

"That was your crappiest idea ever, House!"

For the last twenty minutes they have been buffeted by high winds outside. With temperatures in the mid-thirties the short walk on the beach Wilson had been looking forward to had turned into something of an arctic expedition. All that was missing was snow.

We're going away for the holidays, pack a bag for three or four days, House had said. Apparently he had called in a favor somewhere, though who around here owned a seaside log cabin and could owe House a favor isn't quite clear to Wilson. Maybe it's better if he doesn't know.

House stumps over to the fire to stoke the embers back to life. Wilson thanks his lucky stars that they had thought to light the fire when they arrived. He is still struggling to peel off his hat and gloves, no way would he be able to get a fire going now. Judging by House's limp he isn't in great shape either.

"Come on, you were the one who wanted nature. Don't tell me you didn't enjoy that brisk walk on the beach. It's so good for your circulation." If you listen closely, you can actually hear the sarcasm drip from House's words.

Wilson snorts. "Yeah right. Look, it's that good, I can't even get my gloves off. Must be working already."

House comes over and pulls the gloves off. He holds on to Wilson's hands for a moment to take a closer look. "See, that blue color, a definite sign of the blood flow returning," he jokes. There is worry under the snark, though. House probably thinks it's well hidden, but Wilson has heard this tone too many times in recent months to mistake it for pure teasing.

House is right, his hands don't look good. They don't feel great either. But they haven't felt great in a long time. They might be back inside but he is still cold. He isn't alone. They are both cold and need something to warm them up.

"Hey, where did you hide that whisky, House? And don't pretend you didn't bring any just so you can keep it for yourself. I'll go through your bag if you don't tell me."

House glares at him. "Don't you dare touch my bag. And isn't it a bit early for you?" This is House speak for:  _You've just come off chemo, are you sure alcohol is a good idea?_

"Never too early in weather like this. Besides, it's medicinal." If the cancer hadn't killed him yet, a tot of whisky wouldn't do much harm.

He goes to boil some water in the kitchen. Even without turning around he knows House is watching his every move. Yes, his hands are still numb. Yes, he is careful. And yes, it all takes a lot longer than it used to. Screw it.

When he is finally done, he finds House settled down on the couch, apparently satisfied that Wilson isn't going to scald himself or chop off a finger today.

"I smell spices." House peers into the mug Wilson hands him and pronounces, "Anything other than neat is a waste of good drink. There's fruit floating in it, too. Trust you to come up with a girl's drink."

"Shut up, House, and drink." He falls onto the couch, then takes a sip. Not that he hasn't done extensive testing before. "It's a slice of lemon with some cloves – hot whisky. Might get rid of the blue color in your face."

House eyes him suspiciously. "Oh, you mean I look like you? Is my hair falling out too?"

"You forget that you started losing your hair long before I got cancer." Wilson grins. He still hasn't completely adjusted to the physical changes he has gone through, and he doubts he ever will, but House's teasing is preferable to total avoidance of the issue. And while he is still ruminating on how much has changed over the last year or so, he sees a package sitting on the floor next to his end of the couch.

"What's this? I thought we said no gifts this year."

"Yeah right. You think I didn't see the big-ass package you lugged into the house earlier? Where did you hide it? Under your bed?"

Wilson nods reluctantly. There's no point denying it, House would find it anyway. The man is the human equivalent of a search and rescue dog.

"Want me to go get it? Seeing as you're currently incapacitated by drink?"

House can barely conceal his anticipation. Wilson secretly enjoys the fact that his friend is still a little kid where gifts are concerned. He just hopes he has made the right choice.

It takes a few minutes before House comes back into the room. Predictably, he has torn off the wrapping already and probably left a trail of paper in his wake. Wilson isn't quite sure what to make of the look on his face.

"House, don't get the wrong idea. I didn't have time to do any kind of research. If it sounds like crap, you can always exchange it for a better one. I kept the receipt. I just thought…"

"Shut up, Wilson, don't spoil the moment."

House sits down on the coffee table, closes his eyes and lets his hands glide over the body of the guitar. He plays a few chords, tunes a little more and tries again. He finally looks up and grins.

"There. It'll do just fine. Go on, open yours."

Wilson picks his gift off the floor and begins to tear off the paper. A pair of hairy Hobbit's Feet slippers. He holds them up and looks at House.

"Seriously?"

"Well, unlike you I had time to do my research. I thought you should at least have hair on your feet if you haven't got any left anywhere else."

He has to admit, as presents from House go, this one is pretty funny. He struggles out of his boots and tries on the slippers. This isn't just House teasing him, although he would never admit it. Wilson closes his eyes for a moment to revel in the fact that nothing cuts off the circulation in his feet. These slippers, horrible as they are, mean that he'll have warm feet from now on.

For a while both sit, sipping from their mugs, feet up on the coffee table, just watching the fire. Wilson can't even recall the last time he felt this relaxed. If only his view weren't interrupted by those hairy monstrosities.

"Remember the distillery tour in Kentucky, House?"

House grunts. "How could I forget. Surprised you can remember, though. You were so drunk that we couldn't get back on the road until you had sobered up again. They'd kick your ass there for ruining their perfect product with lemon and spices."

House is only yanking his chain. He likes the hot whisky well enough, at least if the speed with which he has finished his is anything to go by. They're both nicely mellowed out by now. There is more in that bottle, but this is about all the alcohol Wilson can handle at the moment. If House wants another one, he can make it himself.

Last Christmas had been so different from this. Webber hadn't yet found the right mix for Wilson's chemo. The dose during his first course had been too low, so they increased it during the second course – with the result that the side effects became intolerable, and he ended up spending the holidays in hospital. He had been at his lowest point, even taking into account the day he was diagnosed.

He got so damn close to chucking it all in a year ago.

Glad that he didn't, Wilson huddles deeper into the cushions and feels something like contentment. He is finally warm, he has something nice to drink - something that isn't ginger or peppermint tea to combat the nausea. He is wearing hideous slippers but they're hideous, warm and comfy slippers. Next to him House is picking some notes on his new guitar. Wilson can almost feel his body soak up the heat from the fireplace.

When he closes his eyes, all he can hear over the music is the crackling of the fire.

"Pity we didn't bring crackers and marshmallows…" he ventures.

House stops playing. "And requests for ' _Kumbaya'_  have killed many a friendship. Just so you know."

Wilson grins. For the first time in months he is really comfortable and wonders if it's the alcohol or the open fire or something different altogether. He wriggles his fingers and toes and is delighted that the feeling seems to return just a little.

But the best thing is; this isn't the hospital. Nobody is going to wake him at 6am tomorrow for a blood draw. If it never gets any better, if this is as good as it gets, he won't complain.

All in all, not too bad. Not bad at all.

It's already dark when Wilson wakes up. He is just not used to alcohol any more. One look to the right tells him House fared no better.

When he gets up to stir the fire back to life, he spots something sticking out from behind the clock on the mantlepiece.

He doesn't even hesitate for a second. The envelope has been opened before – probably by House, while Wilson was busy in the kitchen earlier.

A Christmas card.

_I hope you find everything to your satisfaction. Stay as long as you like, my uncle won't need the cabin until Spring._

_Happy Holidays, Dr. House._

_A. H._

The mystery deepens. Whoever A. H. is, he or she knows who House is.

Wilson puts more wood on the fire and replaces the fireguard.

Looking at House sprawled across the couch, he can't help but smile. He silently thanks their unknown benefactor.

"Merry Christmas, House," he whispers.

House stirs and, without even opening his eyes, he mumbles, "Merry Christmas, Wilson."


End file.
